Torment
by The Silver Feathered Raven
Summary: Oneshot. Glorfindel remembers his death on the anniversary of the fall of Gondolin. Rated for Violence.


A/N: One-shot. Rated pg-13(or T) for violence. For this piece I am choosing to believe that Glorfindel of Rivendell and Glorfindel of Gondolin are one and the same. Constructive critisism welcome.

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**Torment**

He sat in the cold room, holding a crystal glass in his hand. The little light of the moon that shone through the window caused little red reflections of the wine that was in that glass to dance across the chair, his robes, his face. As his hand shook slightly, as it brought the cup to his lips, the reflections of red light danced across the surfaces of the room. It was barely any light at all and it looked as through blood had been splattered here and there.

He stared at the empty hearth, devoid of any fire. No fire tonight. No fire to remind him of what had happened so many years ago. Yet he remembered anyway.

It was cold, as nights sometimes get in the summer, when the sun has slipped away behind the hills and across the ocean. Cold so that someone might think that autumn has come early. Cold, to try to keep him from remembering the same night, thousands of years ago, when it had been anything but cold, when the sun had risen in a bloody haze and flames had consumed his world.

The night seemed to only get darker as he drained the glass, feeling the wine burn momentarily in his stomach, then feeling his senses numb slightly. He filled the cup again, filling it to its brim with the dark red liquid. Red as blood.

Thousands of years and a lifetime ago. Yet it seemed only a moment ago, especially on this night. He lifted the glass to his lips again.

There was a noise from outside the window, little more than the sound of an owl taking off from a tree limb, yet he looked up, looking out his window that looked north, half expecting to see the red light coming over the hills. His fingers tightened around the glass, so tight that it was a wonder that the glass did not shatter, so tight that his fingers turned white.

There was no more light outside than that of the silver moon.

He relaxed only slightly, tipping his head back and letting the red liquid spill down his throat.

_Please…_

For a moment he wished that he were human. He wished that he could find the same numbness, the same forgetfulness in drink as they could. He wished that all he had to do was sit here and drink one more glass of wine and find himself in a stupor that would erase his memories from his mind until the morning, when they would be dimmed. He wished that he were human and that the long stretch of time would ease his pain and cause him to forget. He wished he were human so that he could die, so that when he had died he could have drifted off into the blanket of death and never return.

He reached for the decanter and found that it was empty. With a sudden jerk he flung it towards the empty hearth, letting it shatter into a thousand pieces that settled upon the cold stone. Then he reached for the flask of _mirvuor_, pouring it into the glass. Something stronger than wine, perhaps, would find him that wonderful forgetfulness.

It mattered little to him that he had tried this every year since he had come back. He could try again and again, try to lose himself in the drink, try to forget. He could stand the pain on most other days, did not have to use the alcohol to dim the pain, but on this, his dying day, he did.

_This time, please…_

Glorfindel held the glass up before him, looking at the colorless liquid as it cast little droplets of white light around the room. Perhaps this would be better, perhaps it would work. Maybe the fact that the white had replaced the red, the light had replaced the blood, would finally make him forget. He took a mouthful of the alcohol and swallowed. And felt fire run down his throat. If only he could forget…

He set the glass down, bringing his hands to his face and hanging his head. He wanted to forget. He wanted to forget so badly this pain, the pain of seeing all those that he had loved fall in a battle that should never have happened. Again and again he watched those he had known fall around him. The faces of those that he had known, the faces of those that he hadn't.

The face of that small girl where she lay in the street, her body broken and bloody, flies already swarming around her…

He dug his fingernails into his scalp, clutching at his hair.

_Forget. Please, _please_ let me forget…_

Running up the hill, ushering those that were left through the hidden trail in the mountains. And then, just when he had thought that they might have had a chance, seeing that their way was blocked. Blocked by a balrog, flames wreathing its grotesque form, the fiery whip cracking and whistling through the air. That air choked with ash and smoke.

He had leapt forward, his sword drawn. On the cliffs they had fought, Glorfindel of Gondolin and the balrog of Morgoth.

He leaned forward, resting his head on the table, his eyes shut. As he had moved the glass of _miruvor_ had tipped, falling, spilling its contents of the rug and stone at his feet. He hardly cared, barely even realized.

_Sweet Valar, let me forget._

He remembered the smoke around him, choking him as he fought. The fire had seared him, burned him, and he had grit his teeth and slashed at the creature. His sword had cut deep and the balrog roared, swiping out at him. Pain, pain through his left side.

Unconsiously his hand moved to his side, to the place where his armor had bent, turning inwards on itself and cutting and hurting him more than the balrog's actual thrust had. The metal, piercing his flesh and causing blood to run down his side.

The moon moved closer to the horizon, unnoticed by the Elf who sat in tortured silence, reliving again what had happened to him thousands of years before.

His sword broke, the shards falling around him. He brought his right hand to his waist, drawing a curved dagger, thrusting it into the balrog's chest. The balrog had roared again, stumbled, fallen over the edge of the cliff, into the abyss.

He had turned slightly, wearied, batter, hurt, when he felt the balrog grab the ends of his hair that had fallen free of his helmet, jerking him backwards. He felt his neck snap from the sudden motion, but he was still alive…

_Stop! Stop! Don't let me remember!_

He had fallen, fallen with the creature, feeling smoke and ash and fire all around him. His armor and skin had melted, little drops of gold colored liquid metal falling like rain from him. His last moments were of pain and fire before his lungs failed him completely and the pain washed him away and all things turned to white mist that surrounded him.

He recalled little after that. Only a gentle, peaceful feeling and voices, though he could never quite tell what it was they said. And then…

…Then he came back.

Glorfindel raised his head from the table, looking up through a curtain of golden hair and saw the light of the sun stream through the window. A bird sat on the windowsill, watching him.

He rose, stumbling slightly as he walked to the small table that held a pitcher and ewer, pouring a bowl of cold water and splashing it on his face. It brought him back to his senses enough to know that the night was over, that he had lived through yet another day of remembering.

_If only…_

Midsummer's day had passed.

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A/N2: I could not find a date for the day that Gondolin fell and the only day that the Silmarillion offered was a festival called 'Gates of Summer'. For this story I have decided that that will be Midsummer's day. If that isn't right...well, I will say that I did try to find what the day actually was, but I couldn't find it.

Raven


End file.
